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He rolled over with a groan, lights exploding behind his eyes.

"Bloody, buggering fuck!" The curses bubbled out of him as he clutched his head. "There is *no way* I drank enough American swill to earn this hangover!"

As the world gradually began to right itself, he spied the Jack Daniels bottle beside him on the sarcophagus.

Oh. That might explain it.

Spike fumbled for the whiskey, almost knocking it to the floor before getting a grip on the neck. Lifting it to eye level, he tried to check the alcohol level in the bottle. Or… Bottles? It was a little hard to tell, his eyes still weren’t cooperating. He shook his head, then dropped the JD to press his hands to his temples as the pounding set back in with a vengeance.

He took a deep breath, sighed a deep sigh. Completely unnecessary, yet it never failed to make him feel a little better. The jackhammers in his skull receded to a dull pain and he carefully picked the bottle back up. Nothing for it like a little hair of the dog.

He frowned as he unscrewed the cap. Even through the painful hangover haze, he could tell something was… off. He glanced around the crypt, trying to figure it out. Tossing back a swig of Jack, he enjoying the slow burn down his throat as he mentally catalogued the room. Coat on the floor where he’d thrown it the night before. A few bottles from his binge. Except… Spike scratched his head. He didn’t remember drinking last night, pounding in his head notwithstanding. He didn’t remember doing anything after he’d killed the Slayer-

"Augh!" Spike leapt off the tomb, sending the whiskey bottle flying across the room to smash into the wall. He backpedaled across the crypt and tripped over his own feet to land hard on his arse, adding a throbbing backside as accompaniment to the aching chorus in his head. He stared up at the empty marble surface he’d occupied a moment before, breathing hard, and wondered if he was losing what was left of his mind.

The Slayer. She was dead. He’d drained her himself. In that very spot. If he’d had a heartbeat, it would’ve been galloping like a racehorse. He forced his breathing to slow down, and tried to think. Maybe he’d crawled back up there after having a celebratory drink. Except he had no memory of doing any such thing. And also, where’d the chit’s body gotten to?

Spike rose unsteadily to his feet and walked back to the sarcophagus. He peered around it – no body on the floor. He gave the crypt a quick once over. He hadn’t gone and tucked it behind any pillars or in a corner. Finally, he shoved the lid aside. Nothing in the stone coffin but some moldering old bones.

His brows drew together in consternation – and then he started to laugh. It had to have been a dream. An unbelievably real, intense, erotic, very detailed dream.

"Fucking unbelievable," he muttered as he fished his fags out of his duster. He settled down on the sarcophagus and lit one up. He gave himself a brief inspection. Other than the pounding in his head, there were no injuries on his body. He smiled as he took another drag, and focused on what he could remember.

Which seemed to be everything, surprisingly. Fighting in the clearing, their final face-off in the crypt – and the feeling of sliding in the Slayer’s hot, wet quim. Spike found himself hard at the thought. Flicking the butt on the floor, he laid back and undid his jeans, grasping his cock as he lost himself in the sensations. The Slayer, all weak and trembling, unable to fight him off. Sinking into her, over and over, then sliding his fangs into her neck-

He came with a strangled growl, thick pearly ropes of spunk splattering his hand and chest, panting as though he needed to. He looked down. Fuck. He was gonna have to change his shirt.


***

Spike was chomping at the bit to get out. As soon as the sun was low enough to leave the crypt safely, he was headed across the cemetery. He wanted a meal, a fight, a beer and a shag, and not necessarily in that order. As he strolled along, his thoughts kept turning to the Slayer and her hot little body. How good it felt in his dream. And disturbingly, how in his dream he’d been upset over killing her.

"Pfft. Just didn’t wanna waste such a fine piece of ass," he mumbled to himself, annoyed at the thought. It was just a dream, after all. Even though it didn’t feel like any dream *he’d* ever had before.

He meandered down what passed for the main drag in Sunnyhell, then spotted dinner. There was a woman headed through a dark alleyway rooting around in her purse. Probably looking for her keys or some such. He tsked as he picked up his pace and headed to intercept her. People in this town were so blind. A few seconds later he was right behind her.

"Need a hand, luv?"

He smirked as she spun around, startled.

"Uh, no… uhm, I'm f-fine, thanks," she replied, backing away as she eyed the distance to the other end of the alley where a car was parked. He moved in closer.

"Not safe walkin' through dark alleys alone, pet. You sure you don't want someone to walk with you?"

She glanced between him and the car, obviously torn. Spike glanced behind them briefly. They were far enough in. He turned back to find she was speaking.

"No, really, thanks all the same, but I'm fine."

His lips curled into a truly evil smile. "Oh, no pet. You're really, really not."

She didn't even have a chance to scream before his fangs were in her jugular, his hand slapped over her mouth. And it was the strangest thing, but as he drank, Spike had the oddest sense of déjà vu. He'd done this exact same thing hundreds of times before, but the woman's blood tasted familiar. The scent of her perfume as it mingled with the odor of her sweat, terror and blood – he could almost swear that he'd eaten her before.

And then she was dead in his arms and he was easing her down, propping the body up behind a handy dumpster. Chalk another one up to 'mysterious animal attack and death by blood loss' in the wilds of downtown Sunnyhell. He spared her one last, somewhat perplexed look, then walked away.


***

The Bronze was hopping, teeny boppers and college students crammed wall to wall. Spike sashayed through the throng as though he belonged there, bestowing a sexy grin on the girls looking his way he settled in at the bar. The sense of déjà vu that had been haunting him was even stronger now. He ordered a beer and scanned the crowd.

Wasn't like he hadn't been in the joint before. It had to be the dream. He'd come here in his dream, before he'd run into the Slayer. And almost tripped over the superfriends on his way out. Chances were her little band of white hats weren't even- his eyes narrowed as he spied a shock of red hair. There they were, just a few tables away. The whelp, the witch and the werewolf. Spike snickered. CS Lewis was probably turning in his grave.

Well, he knew where they were, so no danger of stumbling into them now. As he sipped his beer, he strained to overhear their conversation, but the din of the crowd drowned most of it out. What he did catch mostly sounded like adolescent prattle anyway – music, school and dates. Nothing about the Slayer or any new Big Bads in town. He downed the rest of the bottle, then melted into the crowd. Time to go see what kind of trouble he could get into.



A quick, unplanned stop at Willie's gave him the spot of violence he'd been craving. Smart mouthed young fledge who didn't know his head from his ass, and didn't head the warnings a couple of the older vampires hissed at him. Obviously a football jock or some such before he'd been turned, the upstart had taken a look at Spike and decided to kick some ass.

"Spike *please*!" Willy wailed from behind the bar, as Spike sent the fledge sailing into the glass shelves behind it. "I just finished fixing the place after the Slayer came in here half drunk and smashed things up!"

Spike grinned maniacally as he leaned over the bar and grabbed the other vampire by the neck. "You don't say?" he asked conversationally as he hauled the demon back up and tossed him across the room. Spike leaned an elbow on the counter as he spoke to the cowering bartender. "The Slayer? Drunk? And no one here thought that might be a good time to finish the bint *off*?"

Other demons around the bar looked away as he shook his head in mock despair. "Are you all *very* stoned? S'like an engraved invitation! Here I am, drunk off my head. Eat me, please!"

The fledge on the floor began to stir, and Spike overturned a chair, snapping off leg. "I swear," he lectured as he stepped over to the groaning vampire, "If I want something done right in this town, I've got to do it myself."

With a swift thrust, he pinned his opponent to the floor. The fledge screamed, then poofed out of existence.

"Speaking of which… I've got a Slayer to find."


***

Spike didn't really have a plan other than 'find Slayer, kill Slayer'. Or, possibly, 'make dream come true'. Yeah, that wouldn't be a bad way to spend the evening. And as he mulled over the possibilities, his feet carried him unerringly to the site where it had all begun. He looked around in surprise.

"Well. Guess the ol' subconscious was really hoping… that things... might…" he trailed off, mouthing gapping open. Unfolding before him was the *exactly scene from his dream*! The Slayer was running, chased by a big, lumbering oaf of a vampire, drawing him away from the dormitories. As she turned to engage him, Spike regained his senses.

"This time, it's going down a little differently, pet," he muttered quietly, then took a leap off the embankment he was watching from. Spike heard her goad the other demon as he made a controlled descent down the steep hillside, and he reached bottom just as she staked the vampire and started to complain.

"I don't think the forces of darkness are even trying. I mean, you could make a little effort here, you know?"

He pulled out a fag.

"Give me something to work with."

The quiet 'snick' as he flicked open his Zippo got her attention and she whirled around. He smirked as he lit the cigarette, enjoying how her eyes got big and round with surprise.

"Ask and ye shall receive, Slayer."

"Spike."

He doubted that it was possible to pack more contempt into one word. He blew smoke in her direction.

"Yes?"

"What are you doing here?"

He rolled his eyes. "Well, I should think that would be bloody obvious. I'm here to kill you, of course."

She snorted. "Oh, right, like the last time." She looked up at the sky, beseechingly. "I thought I said I something I could work with?"

"Hey!" he barked out, annoyed. *Cocky little bint, I'll show her what's the what.* He threw the cigarette down and circled to her right.

Buffy mirrored the action and smiled sweetly. "So, Spike. How's that freckle thing workin' out for you?"

He sneered. "I've decided that sunshine is highly overrated." He feinted, she blocked, they parted and circled each other again. "So, Slayer. You still mopping after that sod? S'that why you got all pie eyed and totaled Willie's place?"

She aimed a kick at his head, missed. He landed a punch, she got him with her elbow. The circled again, reassessing.

"None of your business, asshole!" she bit out, face flushed in anger.

He waggled his eyebrows. "Ooo, did I hit a sore spot? Slayer's got an itch, and no one to scratch it." His voice went velvet smooth as he ran his tongue across his upper lip. "I might be able to help you out with that-"

*Wrong thing to say* he realized as she came at him like a bat out of hell. And then it was fists and feet, elbows and knees, and it was all happening in slow motion for the first time again! He saw the fateful kick coming, but there was nothing he could do to stop it and *crunch*, the sickening sound and feel of his ribs breaking under her assault. And just like he'd dreamed, he stomped and she fell, screaming and cussing. He limped away as fast as he could, her invective following him as he stumbled along.

He headed back to the crypt; there really wasn't anywhere else *to* go. He wasn't about to try Harmony's place, she was likely to stake him as soon as look at him for what he'd pulled with the Gem of Amara. He sat on the edge of the hard stone tomb taking stock of his injuries. Spike couldn’t help smiling. Pain and suffering aside, he really did enjoy the dance.

There was obviously a lot more going on than simple déjà vu. He didn't know *why* his dream was coming true, but it was. In which case the Slayer was going to be here any second, and under his power shortly after that. He kicked his lips at the thought. He was going to get that shag tonight after all.

The crypt door slammed open and there, framed by the moonlight, stood one mighty brassed off Slayer.

"Oh, Spike," the she caroled in the same singsong voice, "Why did you run away? I wasn't finished kicking your ass." She brandished the stake menacingly.

He stood to face her, wincing at the pain. "Wanted to take it someplace private, pet. Just you an' me."

She gave him a glare. "You're still a pig."

"I am." He assumed a fighting stance. He opened his mouth to say something else, but she lunged at him with the stake. He dodged and tripped her (again) sending her sprawling. He thought for a moment that it really wasn't fair that he knew what was coming – then smiled evilly. Yeah. Not fair at all. He was really going to enjoy this.

Even with foreknowledge, he wasn't able to avoid all her fists entirely. In evading a particularly painful kick, he left himself open, and she caught him full in the nose. He spun away, outraged.

"Fuck!" He glared at her. "You *still* got that one in! God DAMMIT!"

She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind, then shrugged and came at him with the stake. *This is IT* his mind screamed. *This is when it happens!*

And it did. In mid-stride, the heel of her boot snapped off, sending Buffy stumbling. But unlike in his dream, Spike was a little farther away. Just far enough that she was able to get her stake up before he caught her. And to bring it down, full force before he could get his arms entirely around her.

A burning pain, worse then any exposure to the sun ripped through him. Warm Slayer in his arms, but he could feel himself turning to dust.

"Bloody…"

*poof*

Buffy brushed the dust off her clothes and walked out of the crypt. Willow, Xander and Oz were waiting for her at the Bronze, and she *really* needed to wash the vamp dust out of her hair before she went dancing.





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